Dirge Without Music


It’s another Monday morning, so time for Monday’s Poem of the Week. It’s gray and overcast looking out at the mountains this morning. Over the weekend, we attended the funeral of yet another friend who served his patients and his country well, but has now moved on beyond our call and reach. The following classic is appropriate to how I, and many of you dealing with loss, feel.

DIRGE WITHOUT MUSIC
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, — but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

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When the Tanks Come Rolling In


For several weeks now, I have been unable to turn on the TV news. The images coming from Ukraine are too similar to almost suppressed but not forgotten memories from my childhood. I was well on the way to my tenth birthday when in October of 1956 the revolution ignited in Budapest. A group of university students were protesting for increased freedom at the radio station when they were machine gunned by the AVO, the Hungarian secret police. News of the massacre spread with incendiary speed throughout the city, and over a 100,000 people gathered in outrage in front of the Parliament building. The government panicked, calling out the army to back up the secret police, ordering them to fire on the crowd. Rather than killing their own people, the army joined them in fighting against the AVO forces, as well as those of the Russian army stationed within the country. For a brief time, fighting with only rifles against the superiorly equipped enemy, bolstered by Western promises of aid, the so called Freedom Fighters were able to push the occupying forces outside of the city. After three weeks of heavy street to street fighting, during which over 50,000 Hungarians lost their lives, Russian heavy armor backed by their air force brutally wiped out all resistance. The promised Western aid never came.

I was living in the center of the city, just off one of the main ring streets. I remember watching a Russian tank roll down our street, and when my horrified parents yanked me away from the window, hearing the eruption of the tanks cannon, followed by the crumbling of the walls of the building across the street where my friend lived. He survived. His parent’s did not. I remember kids not much older than me, covering their bodies with newspaper, pretending to be dead, than waiting for a tank to roll by so they could toss a Molotov cocktail underneath. I recall dodging between buildings during lulls in the firefights, trying to make our way to a bakery to find bread to eat. I remember stuffing my pockets with bullets of all calibers lying scattered around the pavement, and being able to see inside apartments with pianos and furniture teetering on the edge of floors as the building walls had been blown away, like scenes inside a grotesque doll house.

I spent years reliving those nightmare scenes until my new life and some later therapy helped to extinguish them. I never thought they would come back. Until now. Today, it’s the Ukrainians who are dying, waiting for the help they were promised. May God have mercy on us all.

Posted in America, Communism, Death and Dying, History, Hungary, News and politics, Russians, Thoughts & Musings | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

How to Say Goodbye


Monday’s Poem of the Week addresses a theme that recently has been to familiar for many of us. I like it because it does so with elegance and hope. Wishing we all can do the same.

How to Say Goodbye

The gentleness seeps into corners.

You worry about leaving this world

unloved. As if once this happened,

all could stop. In the quiet these colors

appear soft. Caressed slowly by the

eyes, a fullness felt in every breath.

Silly things you never had time for

come out of the dark. And the moon,

unwavering in where it shines. Here

the words you’ll never say tumble out,

disappear underneath rain puddles. You

know where this fear comes from. There

is too much unknown. Yet, you still

find a place to call home. Following you,

the scene turns inward, to that silent

urge spending time tuning in minor key

with questions of careful tenderness. Which

is to say love, echoed on thin strings of brief

harmony. Even in this vast openness

there is intimacy. So much that

you believe you have arrived. That you

can let go. Watch the stars run their course.

And the waters their rhythm. as the wind

passes by the leaves briefly touch. You are

reminded of what could be. And what is.

  • David Haosen Xiang
Posted in America, Death and Dying, Family, Hope, Love, Medicine, Poetry, Relatioships, Thoughts & Musings | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

The Gremlin of the Kremlin


These are thoughts many of us have. I’ll have more to say on this later this week.

Sunra Rainz

Who will do the undoable?  Someone, anyone.
And yet he can see his enemies coming
from his ludicrously long table. 
His finger hovers over the red button.

He won’t grow a heart.  It’s not possible.
The frontal lobe of the psychopath cannot be grown.
It’s not a war,it’s an operation.
Just a routine operation, people.

*

Who will take him out?
Would they have to get through his henchmen?
Would it be one of his henchmen?

Where are you, John Wick? 
Where are you, Wonder Woman?
Where are you, Jason Bourne, Austin Powers, La Femme Nikita, Ethan Hunt, Emma Peel, Kingsman, Black Mamba, Secret Agent Fat Bastard?
Who will take him out? 

Let it be the quiet mouse no one would ever suspect
let it be the nerd who won a special move in his last computer game
let it be the maid, the gardener, the neighbour, the girlfriend.

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What is “Good Enough” to be a Doctor or a Nurse?


What is “Good Enough” to be a Doctor or a Nurse?

Most parts of our country are experiencing major shortages in the number of doctors and nurses required to serve the medical needs of the community. This problem has been exacerbated by the Covid-19 epidemic fueled retirements, as well as the diminished number of foreign doctors and nurses able to enter the country due to immigration policy changes. Even if a substantial number of new schools were to be built in the near future, they lack qualified and interested people to teach newly enrolled students to produce the graduates capable of meeting current needs. There are a number of reasons for the shortage of teachers. One is that not everyone who has the requisite knowledge is capable of transmitting that knowledge to a new student. The petty politics of academic centers, the lower salaries offered, and the difficulty of meeting publication demands combined with the progressive paucity of funding for research, are all elements in the lack of teachers in our institutions.

One offered solution has been the rapid rise of ancillary health care providers, including physician assistants and nurse practitioners, who have a much abridged training time, and often work semi-autonomously from doctors. The general public has accepted them, though their long term impact on the overall quality of health care is still far from settled. Most health care issues in primary care offices are relatively straightforward, and can be dealt with adequately by these new providers. However, the unanswered question is the ability of someone with less training to recognize that a presenting problem is in fact much more complex, and requires greater expertise, than the ancillary provider possesses. The number of people who will experience delay or failure of treatment by someone not capable of this level of problem recognition will ultimately determine if this experiment works. Unfortunately, patient satisfaction scores do not always reflect practitioner competence. All that patients can judge is how well they relate to the person seeing them, how long they had to wait, how professional the person looks, and how clean and modern appearing is the facility in which they are being seen. The public is sadly at the mercy of the profession in determining who is sufficiently competent, along with the people who set the standards for licensing those who practice medicine. Due to a number of external and internal factors, which I will try to now explain, this monitoring system has grown more deficient with time.

Until recently, most schools training doctors and nurses have been non-profit. However, in the past twenty or more years, there has been an explosion of for profit degree granting institutions. The tuition they charge is equal or greater than the corresponding non-profit schools, yet the education they offer is often inferior to their counterparts. In large part, this is due to the almost uniform lack among for profit institutions of having their own clinical staff and hospitals in which to train students. They rather rely on volunteer practitioners from the community to accept students for training in their own offices and community hospitals. I can state from personal experience with two of these institutions that beyond holding a valid license to practice, there is no selection process or monitoring by the for-profits as to the degree or quality of teaching their students receive. This results in a great variability in the amount and quality of instruction given to students. While some try to do their best to offer what is needed, teaching is not their primary mission or responsibility. Others simply use students as a source of cheap labor, assigning them menial tasks without much if any supervision or learning associated. I’ve had students from these programs who were sufficiently motivated to study on their own, and seek out what they needed. They went on to become good to excellent doctors. Others, however, were willing to do the least amount possible, showed little or no initiative, and in the case of one particular individual, were so clearly ignorant of basics, and showing no desire to learn, that I wrote a letter to the dean stating that this student was so deficient that they should be held back and repeat their year of study, or kicked out of the program. They constitute clear and present danger to any future patient, and not be allowed to practice. The school chose instead to graduate this individual, which is when I resigned from teaching any future students from the school. I was also faculty at one of our better medical schools, and periodically had students who I wouldn’t want to see my family members, but their deficiencies were no way close to the one I wanted to flunk.

This brings up the question: how do these less competent students get a license? The answer lies in the pressure that has been placed on the various accrediting bodies to lower the bar for passing in order to have greater numbers graduate. You know what they call the person who graduates at the bottom of the class? Doctor or nurse! The patients are never privy to the results of test scores. (Truth be told, those with the best scores don’t always turn out to be the best doctors.)The best they can do is research where the person gained their education, and if they are certified by their accrediting specialties. Even that has changed over time. When I took my internal medicine boards, only half the examinees ever passed, as being accredited demonstrated a higher standard of competence that just having finished school. Now, the pass rate on those same boards, following lawsuits by those who failed them, is up to 95 %. We have all become above average.

Doctors are rightfully accused of failing to police their own ranks, weeding out those who should not be allowed to practice. Here again, the legal profession has stepped in, and made any kind of restriction on the practice of those felt to be less than competent just about impossible. If you have been given a license to practice, in today’s world, it’s just about impossible to keep you off the staff of any given hospital, unless you have been convicted of a crime, abusing drugs, or sexual impropriety. You have to establish a record of killing or injuring any number of patients (greater than the expected number of treatment failures for a given disease) before your privileges can be revoked. For the rare few for whom this occurs, they can often be found somewhere in an area so desperate to get medical assistance that their prior records never get revealed.

If it comes to us, or our families, we want the best, most competent person taking care of us. If you came to my hospital, and asked me who those people are, I could tell you. So could the nurses in the ER or the OR. However, if I were in a medical community I didn’t know, I would be in the same boat you are. I would likely call the closest academic center or large hospital, ask to speak to the charge nurse in ER or OR, and ask them who they want taking care of their family. Despite all the technological advances, medicine is still as much an art as it is a science. Subjectivity cannot be completely eliminated. But the debate over which is better; having smaller number of truly competent individuals versus larger numbers of less than competent ones so more people can be treated, should be long, thoughtful, open, with all stakeholders, including patients, involved. My personal feeling is that medical practitioners, just like pilots, should not be graded on the curve. You either know it or you don’t. The difficulty lies in agreement as to where to draw the line.

Posted in America, Ethics, Health and wellness, Medicine, Politics, School, Thoughts & Musings | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Humility


Humility

Humility is a character trait most of us tend to admire about another person. Ideally, it comes from the recognition that a great deal of rewards, honors and riches we accumulate over time are not necessarily due to our actions, but acknowledging that they are the results of chance, endowments over which we have no personal control, such as intelligence, good looks, being born into wealth, being in the right place at the right time, or the efforts of others, rather than just our own. Even the so called self-made man, if he is honest with himself, has to admit that external factors outside of his own control have played roles in his success.

Clearly, not everyone has the insight and honesty to recognize the above truths. Those that have the grace to do so receive our favor. Yet others wear a cloak of false modesty, claiming humility in order to be recognized and well thought of by society: the so called humble bragger.

There are elements of humor used by some with regards to this trait. Witness the politician who  said, “My opponent is a very humble man who has a great deal to be humble about.” Or there is the cartoon that shows a guy lying on the road with a caption: “Always encumbered with a sense of low self-esteem, Bob gets a job as a speed bump.” These are false ideas of humility. You don’t exaggerate it, you don’t put it down.

Sometimes humility comes from the recognition of the truth that many of us have gotten a far better deal than what we deserve at the expense of fairness and justice to everyone else. Once we recognize this, it behooves us to do something for others to help even the scales.

There is no one like family or a child to help keep you humble, as they are the first to point out that the emperor has no clothes. They are not afraid to call you on the things you say, and they have great built in B.S. detectors. I still remember calling my dad after doing my first delivery in medical school to have him wryly ask, “What would have happened if you hadn’t been there?”

Humility is the trait that allows us to recognize that despite all our personal and accumulated knowledge, there is so much we don’t know, and that what we think we know turns out not infrequently to be wrong. It’s the essential part of the self-correcting mechanism that allows us to learn and grow.

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Dandelion Seed


It seems inevitable in certain demographics that news of loss and major illness amongst those who are close to us erodes the confidence we have in our own futures, creating reminders that we all live under the sword of Damocles. Out of these memento mori moments comes the following for our Monday Poem of the Week.

Dandelion Seed

You left like a dandelion seed,

blown by winds over which I had

no control, though I desperately

hoped I might. Like all fathers,

I wanted you settled in fertile soil,

so you might reach your full potential,

creating your own seeds to scatter into

future bloom, the results of which I

may never see.

I had hopes you would find your spot

nearby, so I could see the flowering you

produced. How vain and deluded are

our dreams! Yet, I am comforted by knowing

that you have found good soil into which you

have placed your own tokens of immortality

in the only manner available to any of us. May

the sun shine and the rains nourish all that

you have produced even as my own roots

begin their inevitable decay.

Copyright © 2022 by George Ferenczi

Posted in America, Children, Death and Dying, Family, Fathers and Sons, Love, Poetry, Relatioships, Thoughts & Musings | Leave a comment

Project Clog


How many of us are unaffected by rush hour traffic, looming deadlines, personal and family demands, emails waiting for response? Not many, sad to say. Which is the reason why the following poem from my brilliant friend Dave strikes so close to home. Thanks to his insights, here is this Monday’s Poem of the Week.

Project Clog

Too many cars on the two lane road of a day with only twenty-four hours
Too many odds and ends and now we cannot open the kitchen drawer
Plaque inside the arteries of wings of opportunity, building up and crippling the pathways as it hardens
Too many kids causing chaos in the class of the poor beleaguered teacher of my mental kindergarten
Too many people in the lines at the convention
Too many facts for any shot at comprehension
Enumerating numerals too numerous to mention
Too many metaphors, vying for attention Projects next to projects next to things I need to do
The bigger that the pile becomes the less I follow through
I have a bit of time to tackle something on the list
The question I’m incapable of answering is which? Doorknobs, windows, leaks, and other simple home repair
Longer term endeavors such as web design and software
Organize the office or the tools or paint the shed
Write or draw or dig or maybe solder things instead
Finish off that ebook, fix the bike, or plant the peas
Engineer world peace or fight starvation or disease
Dominate the markets, pass some laws, or stage a coup
Save endangered species, raise a teenager or two And as I list them now I feel the urge to go and do
No idea what as yet but surely this is true:
I don’t have the time to waste to talk to any of you
Or even write this poem
So I guess that means it’s through

Copyright © 2013 by Dave Grossman

Posted in America, Humor, Mental Health, Poetry, Thoughts & Musings, Time | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

A Short Flight in a Small Room


The U.S. Postal Service has slowed the delivery of mail, and we’re all heaving to wait a little longer for things we wish for, including Monday’s Poem of the Week. I hope you have not given up checking this site, and you find today’s poem worthy of your effort. I can only promise to do my best to keep these posts on time, but like anything else in life, you get no guarantees.

A Short Flight in a Small Room

I liked my nurse immediately:

ramrod posture, slight swagger,

dragon tattoos. I didn’t expect

when she took my hand between

her blue-gloved ones and said

squeeze me when it hurts, I can take it

that I’d feel lifted as if in a basket

and she was the balloon. The doctors

darted about the room white winged

and capped, goggled, and muffled.

I was both out of my body and in,

my breast punctured and radiated,

gripped in its plastic cage but far below me

as if held captive in some hidden valley.

The machines made their shooting noises.

Eyes above masks narrowed and searched

but hers stayed soft and I kept tethered.

I wonder if the soul sometimes rocks itself

loose in its warm-blooded house.

I wonder if it flies in short bursts

like the golden crown sparrow, singing

its steady but lilting three-note song.

  • Michele Bombardier
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Antidotes to Fear of Death


The show must go on, but for circumstances beyond one’s control, it sometimes starts late. For those of you who care, this work should have appeared on this site on Monday, but obviously, it’s only making an appearance now. Mea culpa. A lot has been going on in the world during the past several days, and my world is no exception. I’m trying to organize my thoughts to write about what I want to say, but until I do, I remain grateful to Ms. Elson for having the grace to write the following verse more beautifully than I ever could.

ANTIDOTES TO FEAR OF DEATH
by Rebecca Elson

Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.

Posted in Beauty, Cold War, Death and Dying, Hope, Poetry, Thoughts & Musings | 1 Comment